Grasping for Summer: Nags Head, 1974

On the boardwalk, the Spicer boys shucked their shirts, the oldest revealing a shark-tooth necklace, the youngest, smooth skin and his dad’s muscles. I’d overheard enough of my mother’s soap operas while folding laundry to know boys were a thing. Witnessing first hand two tan teens on a beach, I could only stare, this summer of ’74.

The youngest plowed through the sand dune sheltered by sea oats.

“That’s against the rules.” The hall monitor in me couldn’t help but show up. “We’re supposed to stay on the walk.” Mrs. Richardson, who owned the pine cabin we were visiting, would have sharpened her southern-pecan voice if she caught us hurting her sand.